


Under Covers

by Serenity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock/John implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenity/pseuds/Serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, it happened that Sherlock spent time in Molly's flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Covers

 You do not sleep.

 I am watching you staring at the ceiling at night. No, I do not creep into your room to do so. You would notice. You usually sit on the small wooden chair on my balcony, your fingers folded under the chin, observing the texture of the roof.

 I hardly see you during the day. You said, it would only take a few weeks until you leave for Pakistan. Until then you spin your plan. Well, you never talk about it, but I know. Mycroft told me.

 In fact, you rarely speak at all, but it does not matter. I can hear your thoughts, your cries. In the morning hours you tend to doze off, muttering John's name, mostly.

 My alarm clock is set up for five am. I would not need to get up until six but I have altered my schedule to five because I need to watch over you. Once you fell from the chair and hurt your head, badly. You could not go to a hospital so I treated you. You felt dizzy for three days. Fortunately, I could convince you to stay in bed. And who played nurse then? Yeah, Molly Hooper to the rescue. I would always save you, always. And you know.

 At first you had laughed about it but then I had told you that John might die one day from your reckless lifestyle and that was the moment you started to care. You looked into my eyes far too long. I could not hold your stare. Then you averted your gaze and something happened. When you looked back at me again I saw a fear you usually are not able to convey.

 

 

 “You look sad.” I say.

 “You look tired.” you reply without turning your head in my direction.

 “How would you know?”

 “Your feet sound heavy on the floor. They only do so when you're tired.” You sigh deeply.

 I walk towards you and before I reach the chair you extend your right hand, searching for my reassurance. I take it. Your fingers are clammy.

 “The nights get colder. You should't sit out here all night, Sherlock. If you catch pneumonia I cannot prescribe you antibiotics.”

 You stay silent, processing the information on every level. Then you answer: “The night wind is the only bearable one.”

 Poetry. I never thought you hold esteem for the fine arts but you have read my Keats' poems from front to cover. The notes you scribbled along the pages are worthy a volume of its own. That is you being bored but too scared and too scarred to entertain your mind in the usual fashion. Instead you need my hand. Sometimes holding yours is all I do from five to six am.

 Like now.

 I see half of your face smeared with dirt and tears from your recent trip. At midnight you wander to Baker Street, looking at the dimly lit windows of your old apartment, the flat of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. You sit behind a tree and listen to the traffic, every night. You wear the clothes of one of your boys from the Network. They bring you food. Yes, I know, Sherlock. I bribed one of them to inform me whether you are in trouble or need anything.

 Of course it is dangerous to hang around 221b at night, or at all. But you cannot stay from him too long, you need to feel the proximity of his body. You cannot leave England, not yet. Mycroft is furious. He wants you out of country but you just hide in my bedroom like a child, terryfied of facing the darkness.

 You still hold my hand. It gets warmer. The dampness recedes. You might resume your pose and I will make tea. The sun rises over the roofs of London and I take a shower. I will go to work, dissect brains and bring you a treat from the morgue. It distracts you. You love corpses and their riddles. I sneak out equipment from the labs. We got plenty and I do not have to worry about my toaster or coffemachine becoming objects of your experimentations.

 I come out and you sit on the couch. Your hair is a mess but the tears have been wiped away. You watch the news. The water is boiling and when the air is filled with the aroma of morning tea we sit together, eight inches apart.

 When I leave the flat you will sit there for another hour before washing the night off your body and sinking into my bed for a five hour sleep. You will dream, of John, of the fall and the funeral.

 

 

When you are awake you insist on the perfectly logical plan you have cooked but during your shallow sleep you call his name, craving his warmth and affection. That's why you sleep at days. You do not want me to witness, but I know. In the nights, when you fall asleep in the chair I hear you, Sherlock.

 

One night you slept in my bed, by my side. You had come home in a bad condition. You had seen John, even stalked him to the cemetery he visited that night. You almost gave in to reveal yourself because you could not handle to see him like that anymore. That was the time you changed. Seeing what you had done to John Watson. You suffer from your own lifechoices. So do I. You sleep under my roof.

 

“Molly.”

 “Yes”

 “Am I a monster?”

 “Yes, Sherlock.”

 Silence.

 “Then why do you help me?”

 Silence.

 “Molly?”

 I will check on you via the cameras you have installed in my apartment. You want me to watch over you when I am at work. What sounds like fun is torture instead. I can see you suffer on a monitor.

 

  

You must go, you say. Mycroft has made arrangements. The last days were busy. No more nights at Baker Street as an Irregular anymore. You focus on your work, your plan. Your hair is still a mess, but a clean one.

 I have moved to the couch while you sleep in my bedroom, at night. You said you needed the space. Well, I give it to you. Sherlock Holmes, the man of my dreams in my bed and I sleep on the sofa. It hurts, but what hurts more is seeing this pain in your face when you think of John. It runs deeper than any feelings I could muster and my heart is crushing from the love for you, but it would never be enough to match the love of Sherlock Holmes for John Watson.

 

 

“This is it then?” I ask you at our last evening.

 You look up, bewildered by the tear in my left eye. You shut the laptop and get up. Then you walk towards me and I have to lower my head. You hate people crying but now your fingers lift my face up. You watch me intensively. My eyes fill with tears now and you kiss me gently on my right cheek, your breath warm against my skin.

 “Molly Hooper.” you whisper. “You have saved me. There can be no other as brave as you.” Then you kiss my mouth with slow thoroughness. This is your most authentic way to say *Good bye* and I know in the end you will save us all.

 


End file.
